Tell Me You Can Hear Me
by raven612
Summary: John has gone where Sherlock can't reach him, so Mycroft offers him some advice.


**Tell Me You Can Hear Me**

**By: **Raven612

**Summary: **John has gone where Sherlock can't reach him, so Mycroft offers him some advice.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anyone in this fic. I borrow them when the mood strikes.

**A/N: **This is really sad and a bit dark, but my roommate and I have been listening to sad music for some reason and this idea hit me. This was strongly inspired by Plain White T's song Radios in Heaven. I suggest you listen to that while reading. Well, any sad song would do, but that one more so. Unbeta'd and not Brit picked to I apologise for mistakes on both fronts. I also apologise for broken feels. I love you all, and I am working on some new stuff.

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Mycroft Holmes is a very proud man. From the very ends of his hair to the tips of his well polished shoes. There is nothing out of place on his person. Every thread of the suit he wears exudes his intelligence and confidence. One look from his calculating grey eyes can break the strongest of men. He is feared and revered. There are not many who can touch him or get to him. More accurately, no one has been idiotic enough to try.

But Mycroft Holmes is still a human, and as a human he does have some chinks in his armour. Unlike normal humans whose armour is filled with chinks, Mycroft Holmes only has two; his baby brother and Gregory Lestrade.

It is the former of his two weaknesses that Mycroft is tending to now.

An hour ago his assistant informed him of Mrs. Hudson's call. A call he'd predicted would have arrived sooner, and when it had not, he'd tricked himself into thinking that things weren't as bad as he knew they were. It was a fool's game to try and trick yourself, Mycroft knew this, but still, it would have been a lot easier to exist in that place where nothing hurt and things weren't falling apart at the seams, a place where Sherlock had not lost his heart.

Three days ago Mycroft Holmes attended the funeral of John Watson. He stood strongly at his brother's side, supporting him, watching him, and hoping he wouldn't be attending another funeral soon.

The turnout was astonishing. Mycroft was pleased to see so many people coming to pay respects to the doctor. He would have commented on it if he knew it wouldn't cripple Sherlock even further. He remained silent through the service, one hand offering support against the small of Sherlock's back until the detective turned sharply away to head to the black car. Mycroft had frowned after him, but knew it would pointless to make him stay any longer.

The ride back to Baker Street was silent. Sherlock left the car, disappearing behind the black door. Mycroft frowned as he stared at the unassuming wood. He reflected for a moment on the fact that it took one well aimed stab for his little brother's world to be completely upended. Tragic. He pressed a button on his mobile, ordering 24 hour surveillance at 221b Baker Street. The foreseeable future held nothing but danger for the younger Holmes.

Mycroft left Baker Street that day not looking back. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. Sherlock had to get through the darkness on his own. Mycroft's heart broke even more at that realisation.

Now, three days later, Mycroft was greeted with a poignant sound drifting from the door of Sherlock's flat. He turned his head to grimly acknowledge Mrs. Hudson's presence. The older woman had aged many years in the past three days Mycroft noted sadly.

"He's been doing nothing but play for the past three days. Morning, noon, and night; he never quits. He'll…he'll be sick if he keeps it up and now that John is…is gone he won't listen to anyone but you. That inspector from the yard came by a few times." Mrs. Hudson's words dripped with the tears from her eyes as she inserted her key into the lock. She pushed the door open and stood back. She couldn't look in again. She retreated downstairs, her soft sobs echoing in the hall before her door snapped shut.

Mycroft wondered what more she had to say before she had left, but didn't reflect much on it as he entered the flat. The first thing to hit him was the darkness. He'd never noticed how much brighter the flat was before when John was around, how much life had been in it until now when it was devoid of the doctor's presence.

Next was the chaos. The flat had never been particularly tidy before, but now, now the mess spoke of the hurt in its lone occupant. John's jumpers were strewn all around the living room, tables and chairs upended, a laptop on its side, books open and ripped littered many surfaces, but in all the chaos, nothing touched John's chair. Mycroft sadly noted this before his gaze fell on Sherlock.

The lanky man stood in front of the window. His back was rigid as his arm moved, dragging his bow over worn strings. Mycroft stepped closer. His breath caught when he noticed the blood. Drops of it surrounded the area where Sherlock stood. The sheet music he was writing his notes on was smeared with ink and blood. The tips of his fingers were absolutely mangled. Mycroft's heart seized.

He knew Sherlock would take the doctor's death hard, but he didn't imagine Sherlock would take it this hard. He looked around the living room once more, and that was when he saw the empty syringe. Mycroft breathed in sharply.

In that instant his suspicions were proven right. Sherlock had loved the doctor, had loved him with all his heart. For all the bluster and denial Sherlock and John tried to hide behind, they had loved each other, but now John was gone.

Mycroft studied his baby brother a moment before asking the question that was aching to get out. He knew what the answer would be, he knew hearing Sherlock say it would just make it all the more real, but Mycroft needed him to say it out loud and acknowledge it. He cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, why are you abusing your violin so much?" he watched a drop of blood drip from Sherlock's mangled fingers to splatter onto the sheet music already smeared red and black. Sherlock turned to Mycroft then. Mycroft nearly sobbed at the sight of his brother looking so utterly pitiful and broken.

Sherlock stared at him as if the answer would be obvious, "Because I never told John how I felt when he was here to hear me...now he's gone somewhere I can't reach him and I just...I need him to hear me...to know that I _do _love him." His mercuric eyes were large, pleading for his older brother to just make things right again like he always used to.

Mycroft nodded. He shifted his weight, leaning a bit more heavily on his umbrella, "Then you should open the window Sherlock," he let his eyes drift to the window in front of where Sherlock stood.

The tall man turned to look, his mouth falling open and the look on his face shifting. It was so obvious. Of course John wouldn't hear his music if he didn't have the window open.

"Thank you Mikey," he whispered softly before falling back into his mind.

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**A/N: **Thoughts?


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